gopunksphilly-blog

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Nothing to see here @gopunksphilly.tumblr.com, unless of course you like witnessing the train wreck, fucked up, batshit crazy life which is that of a punk rock kid on the streets of Philadelphia in 1985....

Rich Cucarese, author of the upcoming, fictional novel ‘PUNKS’

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The Rangers-Flyers Wars of Gem and Rob and a Sneak Peak at Gem's Flat In Rich Cucarese's Upcoming Fictional Novel, 'PUNKS'...

Streaks of sun make it through the curtains to begin shedding playful, dancing rays of light across the flats’ contents.  Although it’s an older place, it attains a certain elegance with its high ceilings, turn of the century windows, and ornamental plaster moldings. Gem’s space is charming as well. It’s a meticulously kept room; “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” she has a habit of saying with a sense of glee.  It’s the spot she’s always dreamed of having, a happy, quiet spot to furnish and appoint with her meager belongings.

Bulletin boards found in an abandoned school, were carefully covered with fabric and adorned with fliers from the many punk shows she’s seen throughout her young life. Two of her most beloved possessions, a beautifully restored, medium blue, 1950’s model Gretsch electric that she calls ‘Robins Egg’, and a well weathered acoustic stand proudly against a vintage dresser that Misty helped her sand and stain, while an old second-hand, durable, tube amp sits on the floor next to it.

A small black and white TV is on the corner of a small dresser.  The loop antenna is in good shape but the wand antenna has seen better days; resembling a broken metallic twig after being harpooned by a combat boot when my Rangers beat her Flyers in an exhibition game we watched recently.  AN EXHIBITION GAME, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!!  My girl takes her love of Flyers hockey and hatred towards my Rangers very seriously, so thankfully, the antenna took the hit, not me!

Her records and cassettes are stacked in alphabetical order in milk crates adorned with the same fabric as the bulletin boards.  The clothes are always in the dresser or hanging in her closet and the many tidbits of literature purchased at the local secondhand bookstore are placed carefully in a medium sized, wooden bookcase that she unearthed from the same school which housed bulletin boards.  I still love to hear her recall how she and Lena lugged that piece through the streets of Philly and up to her flat.  Trying to envision two totally decked out punk girls carrying a bookcase through South and 4th Streets alone must have been an amusing sight in its own right.  But that was Gem, no pretensions, no bullshit.  She was a breath of fresh air, a girl of so many sorrows and triumphs in her life already, you just wanted to know everything about her.

           The sunlight finds its way over her body, illuminating Gem’s beauty.  We were staring deeply into each-others’ eyes for what seemed like forever.  If we slept an hour last night, that was a lot, considering most of it was spent entwined in a never ending embrace; talking on and on about everything from her troubled past, to what transpired in the park. She was trying hard to kick all the demons of the past and she admitted her failings.  It was a hard road to travel, but she was trying her best and succeeding much more than she was willing to give herself credit for.  “You are like my own personal rooting section, Robbs.  I will love you forever for that.”

Excerpt from the draft of Rich Cucarese’s upcoming fictional novel, ‘PUNKS’...Chapter 7, ‘What Remains of the Day’..... 

The Rangers vs. Flyers Brawl Exhibition from October 1, 1985....Gem’s TV antenna takes the hardest blow of all!!!

A Panasonic TV just like Swan’s before it saw better days....

Gem’s axe!!!  A beautiful ‘Robin’s Egg’ Gretsch!!

Much like our Gem another ass kicking punk who just slays a Gretsch.....X’s, Billy Zoom!!!

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Protesting on behalf of an iconic landmark of music, something you’d almost never see in the States due to the crass banality of capitalism which steamrolls everything into the ground once its supposed usefulness is deemed unnecessary by the business class.... 

You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party!

Every punk scene had its CBGB back in the late-’70s and Eric’s Club was the iconic venue that had become the birthplace of the Liverpool punk and post-punk scene since 1976.

When the club was shut down in spring 1980 after a police drug raid, the punk crowd took to the streets and marched through town in protest (h/t to Gary Stubbs for the photos).

(via)

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(via Make a GIF)Social D, Story Of MY Life....

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Never a Dull Moment With Syd and the Girls From 'SKINZ' In Attendance and Of Course Our Resident, Heckle and Jeckle

The girls uninhibited, sexual psychosis, created the perfect segue for ‘Crack’ to come scorching onto the scene with our first set, plowing through the originals of Dilby and Acer’s ‘Crack’ crew, and we added some new covers to the mix, such as GBH’s, ‘Sick Boy’, and Social Distortion’s, ‘1945’.  

Of course, Gem heightened the unrestrained lunacy by having us do the Limelight and Dobbs version of ‘I Wanna’ Be Your Dog’ which had me losing my shirt (again) and Gem riding around on my back, with me on all fours singing (again) and a shitload of girls getting onto the stage, with Sammi and Lena doing the honors of kissing me all over this time until Syd, who I guess didn’t have enough fun at my expense by just about stripping me naked in their store the other evening, decided to French my tonsils out tonight.

My Gem was no help here either, laughing and howling demonically while Syd shimmied her way under me, running her tongue across my chest until slipping even further down to the netherworld before I sat on top of her, delaying her progress towards leaving me in a ….gulp…over-stimulated situation, and in the process, sent a hysterical Gem toppling from my back.  Ever the trooper, my girl continued playing through a tangled mess of amp and mic cords, drawing some well-deserved applause when we finished.

During the break of our first set, after I unloaded nearly a full bucket of ice water on me to quell the um….heat produced by a certain Sydney, Gem and I jumped up on stage, with her deciding to wow the audience with some old time rock by running her ‘Robin’s Egg’ Gretsch ferociously through Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Voodoo Child’; leaving the crowd jaw dropped at her guitar mastery and Acer and Dil beaming at their rising star’s proficiency.

And if that weren’t enough to make the evening an interesting one, we seemed to have lost Tim and Skate somewhere.  Dust, Oren and Steph decided to put together a search party but never got their chance to mount their rescue, when out of the night appeared two guys in ball caps, Schmidt’s coverall’s and close to seven or eight cases of bottled beer.

“Compliments of the Schmidt’s Brewery!” one of the employees exclaimed laughingly before the cap was snatched from his head by Dusty, who could only throw up his hands in utter disbelief when he realized the caper that had just been pulled. “Jesus Bleedin’ Christ….you two cat burglars just pulled off a beer heist!” he exploded in laughter as Tim and Skate beamed from ear to ear when the jig was up.

“Hell, there are so many people working in there, we just walked in like new hires, went to the locker room, grabbed these get up’s, headed straight to the loading dock  and tossed all of it onto this hand dolly.  Then it was off into the dark streets of the Libs for us!” Skate beamed with pride.  All in all it was just another day in the life for our human versions of Heckle and Jeckle.

An excerpt from Richard Cucarese’s upcoming fictional novel, ‘PUNKS’...Chapter 34, ‘The Message’....

Social Distortion interview and ‘1945′ live from CBGB’s!!  It was a great concert!!

Schmidt’s Brewery in Northern Liberties, Philadelphia!!!! R.I.P.....

Heckle and Jeckle show opener.... Tim and Skate’s alter ego’s....

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Welcome to the sad, sorrowful truth of Gem's life and Philadelphia's Underworld, 1985...in 'PUNKS' the novel...

“NEXT STOP….ALLEGHENY….ALLEGHENY…NEXT STOP!!” ……the garbled, scratchy early morning voice of the engineer bellows through the gnarled, subway car speaker.  Gem springs up from her comfortable quiescence, nudging me along. “C’mon cutie, our journey continues.” Wrapping my arms comfortably around her svelte waist, I sandwich her between the pitted, rusty subway car stanchion and my body’s full weight.  “Mmmmmm, now this is why I still like to nuzzle,” Gem purrs.

           The incessant brake squealing makes it hard to even think and after a few quick lurches and jerks occur before our car comes to rest at the stations platform, the doors barely release, allowing for our escape before hurriedly making our way through the turnstiles.  It becomes an obstacle course navigating the steps again with an overabundance of exhausted souls using them as beds and a gauntlet of spent hypodermics to circumvent.  “Watch out for those needles Robbs, they seem to be everywhere,” Gem cautiously whispers.

A very young punk with golden, warrior spikes lies in a comatose state at the top of the graffiti strewn vestibule.  Newspapers, empty coffee cups, and food wrappers have piled up around him but he’s too gone to notice.  The smell of spray paint lingers and there are traces of silver around his nostrils and mouth.  He’s been huffing and from the looks of the two shiners under his eyes, someone decked him pretty hard before the inhalants took him out even further.  

           “Is he even making any sounds, Robbs?”  Gem inquires sheepishly before I get close enough to hear his short, labored breaths.  “He’s alive babe, but he’s hurtin’ pretty badly.”  With Gem’s help, I manage to lug him up the steps and out into the crisp, autumn air.  He’s still pretty shot in the ass to help very much but at least he’s not lying in a puddle of piss anymore.  Our young junkie is a microcosm of the bigger picture plaguing the Kensington and Allegheny section of Philadelphia.  Once a large, blue collar manufacturing region, the only industries growing amongst the dilapidated factories and tattered, brick rowhomes were drugs and prostitution.  Surveying the landscape in front of us was a harrowing experience, to say the least.  On every corner, in every alley, down every sidewalk were despondency, destruction and hopelessness.  The fall foliage, blue skies and regal sunlight from above can do nothing to liven up the misery on display here.

            Even at this early hour of Saturday morning, the drug and skin trade was in full effect further away from Broad and West Allegheny.  Dealers and pimps peddle their wares to the suburban “Masters of the Universe,” who travel far away from their lush lawns, pedigreed wives or girlfriends residing in gated communities, to sample the pleasures of pure decadence behind the doors of filth ridden tenements overrun by rats and littered with soiled cots stained by numerous body fluids.

            In the hazy lust for the pleasures of the flesh and the warping of your mind, cleanliness and decorum seem to fall easily by the wayside in the lives of the so-called powerful and entitled, although the preppie bastards in their ‘Bimmers’, Audi’s and Benz’s are arrogant enough to think they hold some semblance of clout here until the bullets start to fly, or when the Brody’s finally decide to raid the Avenue, thus reducing the trust fund, jetsetters to literally wail like infants for forgiveness in their presence.  In the rare instances that either happen, it’s an entertaining, joyous sight to behold watching the upper crust grovel to whom they on any other day deem as the bottom feeders of society.

           Extracting the thermos of coffee from my backpack, I get a couple of muffins out of the pouch, handing one of them to Gem as we both lean on a freshly stripped, new, red Cadillac Eldorado convertible that was torched and left in a overgrown, debris filled lot to die its lonely death amongst the ruins of capitalism gone awry.  Gem shakes her head, tossing her hair from side to side, hoists the thermos cup and offers a toast.  “Welcome to the American underworld, baby boy, in its entire rancid, horrific splendor. You’re witnessing the fall of a modern day Roman Empire and punks like us have the soundtrack for its destruction.”

           Taking residence on the Cadillac’s torn up, burnt frame; I try to absorb the amassing, broad daylight chaos which reminds me so much of the stories written about the South Bronx when I was still in New York. “Gem, is this where your family lived before you moved up by the Yamaguchi’s?”

           “This is it, Robbs, the junkie proletariats’ Rodeo Drive. Take a walk with me.  It’s a number of blocks to East Allegheny, the alphabet blocks and the El and yes, it’s quite depressing but it’ll give you a glimpse of how your girl grew up and where my evil father earned his street reputation.”  A beater car full of little shit punks rolls by blaring The Clash’s, ‘Working for the Clampdown,” as they wail on the horn and wave to Gem.  It’s another place where I quickly find out in our travels that the presence of Gemma Stinson still holds a mighty amount of sway.  

            Sharing another muffin, I ask Gem about how they finally got Lena away from the total street life existence.  “Icy got really shook up when Trix murdered Stace.  Hell, how many young girls do you know who’ve watched three of their girlfriends die within a year or so of one another?”

           “Not too many, love.”

           “Mister Yamaguchi found her a good paying job at the Budd Company and in return, she promised him that she’d at least finish high school to earn her diploma.  Listen Robbs, ‘Icy’ still has a lot of her street ways, as do I.  

           I’ve tried to take mine down a notch but it’s not always that easy because the lure of the street is very tempting……it can be very hard to turn away from.

           You witnessed how fast Lena can become a handful of trouble for someone by the way she acted in Fairmount just recently. She would’ve torn those skinheads to shreds if they’d laid a hand on you and even Yuka got a taste of what street life was like by hanging around with us in high school.  Her fists are quick, Robbs.  I’ve seen her deck a few people really hard.

           Even you have a street brawler mentality, mixed in with some pretty lightning quick fist work.  It’s just wicked to watch you have a go at people, but admittedly I’m much happier when we don’t have to fight anyone.”

           “No argument there, Gem.  Peaceful is much better but it’s nice to know we won’t take any wankers shit either.”

           We travel further through the chaos and as dangerous as this part of town can be, there is a weird sense of security being around Gem here.  There’s an odd acquiescence taking place in the bowels of Allegheny.  Wherever Gem seems to travel here this morning, there is almost deference to royalty approaching and she becomes more annoyed by the attention.  “They know who I am, Robbs.  No harm will probably ever come to me up here because of who my asshole father was. Even in fuckin’ death, he holds a level of fear over people.

           Only after he was killed did people in the K & A begin to hear the animal that he was at home.  They already knew the brutal enforcer he was on the street….the stone cold killer who could charm you with his handsome smile, right before he beat you within an inch of your life with his iron fists, just because you owed money to the Italian or Irish mobsters who retained his services.  

Even my mother was feared by most when she was younger and not all strung out. If my father ever did get himself caught up in shit from time to time, she’d think nothing of putting a gun to your neck or in your mouth.  It really was a demented way to live and makes you wonder why in the hell they’d ever bring a child into this kind of world.”  

Another group of middle age roughs step aside when Gem and I approach, bowing their heads either out of a shallow respect or the trepidation that still apparently exists when a Stinson travels through these broken streets filled with one residence more neglected than the other.  She smiles ever so slightly but grunts mildly in disgust.  “God, it’s so fucking humiliating that the bastard still holds that kind of sway down here.”

Remaining silent, I can’t imagine the burden it must be for Gemma to return to these badlands of pure hell.  Whereas she is revered, loved, respected and feared ONLY by those who are up to no good in our punk enclave of South Street and its environs, you can bear witness to the pain it causes her to see the denizens of her old place of birth still reacting this way.  “Let’s backtrack and pick up the pace, Robbs,” she says as the SEPTA Elevated roars above us while some street urchins add their tags to the volumes already existing on the steel girders below.              Retracing our steps through the human and bricks and mortar rubble that have become North Philadelphia we eventually pass the entrance for the Broad Street Line.  “We’ll be back soon enough to take the subway, Robbs but there’s one more place I need to see before I depart this sorrowful landscape.  Hang tight, we’re almost where I want to take you,” she sighs heavily, lamentably.

           Turning onto North 15th Street, Gem slows the pace down to a crawl, eventually pointing across the street to a derelict row house, covered by overgrown shrubs, thick, weed trees and lathered with crude graffiti. The faded words “DEMON” and “RAPIST” are splattered across the splintered, wooden front door.  Gem asks me for a Red; I comply quickly, blazing it up before she takes a long drag and sighs heavily.  “There it is, Robbs…3250, North 15th…..where my life of hell with Allan and Gabriella Stinson began.”

           “Gem, you really don’t have to do…..” but Gem admonishes me with a mild rebuke.  “Yes, I do have to face my demons, Robbs. That’s why I needed you here by my side….the only person who can help me do this.”

Calmly, I take hold of her hand, lifting it towards my lips.  “I’m here for you, no matter what, Gem.”  

           “This is where Allan Stinson, a machinist by trade, coming from the hard working stock of German, Dutch, Scotch, Irish and the Cherokee tribe brought his bride, Gabriella, a tall, slender, lovely woman of Italian, French, Icelandic and Russian lineage to live and die; and on the in between years, they decided to copulate and bring an unwanted little girl into their boozer, junkie world.

            I can’t find it in my heart to forgive them for what they did to me since they seldom tried to love me, even when times weren’t so bad for them.  They were too worried about being stone cold junkies or drunks.  My father was too worried about being the enforcer who’d crush skulls in for non-payments on ‘debts’.  They were too worried about partying their asses off and leaving their daughter to fend for herself.  They laughed when I was beaten, they laughed when I was a young girl and they spiked my orange juice with vodka to get me drunk…. The list of their evil goes on and on, Robbs.”

           A stiff breeze suddenly whisks through the street, sending debris swirling into the air like dry, fallen, autumn leaves.  Gem swings her hair to and fro while tenaciously approaching the house through increasingly ferocious, heavy winds, before suddenly stopping, balling up her fists so violently that she doesn’t even notice one of her talon-like nails has dug into her palm, sending slow drips of blood to the pavement.  The winds die for a moment but pick up stronger than before, a minute or so later and the superlative beauty of the sun has increasingly disappeared, only to be replaced by menacing, gray clouds, making the fetid landscape of this part of town even more ominous.

           Gem’s eyes darken in a way that I’ve never seen before, as if summoning up forces from above to do her bidding against this place of evil.  “Hold my hand, Robbs…no matter what I say, don’t stop holding my hand.”

           My grip on her is viselike.  “I’m not going anywhere, so say what you have to, Gem,’ who glares at the house again while the wind whips her auburn hair in all directions, making it look flame-like.  A wicked smile crosses her face and she emits a low growl.  “You know that I’m back again, after all this time, don’t you, Al and Gaby?  Did you think you could keep me away forever?  Did you think people wouldn’t know what you two assholes did to me?

           I see your shithole of depravity got tagged for the whole neighborhood to see.  Icy and Stace said they were gonna’ do it, and I’m glad they did.  They should have included MURDERERS, because you broke Uncle Ronnie’s spirit, hastening his painful death and God knows how many people you sent to their untimely deaths by your other monstrous actions.”

The winds begin driving against us even harder but Gem remains undeterred, letting loose a surge of venom against the howling gusts. “You two pieces of shit can send all these torrents of wind at me, trying to drown out my voice but I WILL say what I have to!  I HATE YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME….FOR WHAT YOU LET BE DONE TO ME BY OTHERS…ALL I WANTED WAS LOVE….ALL THAT ANY LITTLE GIRL WANTS FROM HER MOM AND DAD!!!

           She starts to whimper as tears hit the ground but the ferocity of Gem returns in spades.  “YOU both hurt me beyond belief but now I will be strong in your presence, because this house of hell represents the two of you!!  DEAD and BURIED ….it’s where you belong so you can’t hurt anyone else! I just want you to know that I’ve found LOVE and HE’S WITH ME RIGHT NOW…he’s brought a smile to my face ….and a song to my heart….AND BECAUSE OF HIM…YOU WILL NEVER HURT ME AGAIN!!!!

           NEVER!!!!   NEVER!!! Never….never….” Her grip lightens up, as light sobs have joined Gem’s fury.  Picking up a loose brick from the ground, it’s heaved through the only glass pane left on the derelict structure.   “FUCK YOU…GABY AND AL!!!!  NOW, YOU’RE TRULY DEAD TO ME!!” she bellows as the glass explodes, sending shards flying violently in all directions.   The wind still whips feverishly around us while Gem pulls me closer; with tears falling like rain, she locks stares with me.  “I…. love you so much, Robbs.  Kiss me….just kiss me…I am madly in love with you….kiss me and tell me it will all be all right…”

An excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!) upcoming, fictional novel, ‘PUNKS’, Chapter 18, ‘The Underworld’.....

“What are we gonna’ do now?”.....The Clash, ‘Working for the Clampdown’

huffing....

Broad Street and Allegheny Avenue, coming up from the Broad Street Line...

Trainspotting...could’ve been shot in Kensington and Allegheny at any time in the past thirty years....

The needle and the damage done....

Gemma ‘Swan’ Stinson’s old stomping grounds....

North 15th and Allegheny....where the rough and tumble, sorrowful childhood existence of Gemma began....

Allegheny Avenue, Philadelphia....Gemma’s old neighborhood of tough times and sorrows...Sadly,not much has changed in thirty years....

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After a kickin' concert at the Tower Theater, these Philly, punk 'Misfits' are ready to party hard in Fairmount Park...

Amped up to no end about the show and the ensuing festivities in Fairmount, we bolt to the SS, leaving a trail of smoke and burnt rubber down Market Street once we’ve escaped the concert traffic.  Gem’s hand finds its way over mine again, while the other starts moving playfully up and down my thigh.  “I love feeling your strong leg muscles,” she whispers loudly over the stereo which is now playing Killing Joke’s, ‘Love like Blood’.  I glance into the rearview, catching Yuka in a full lip lock with Otto, while Lena gently nibbles on his neck.  It’s nothing for the three of them to share time with each other, even though Otto and Yuka are the mainstays of the relationship.  Lena, enjoys playing around but is definitely more into pursuing girls than guys at the mo’; although she readily admits to Gem and Yuka that she’d easily crush with me or Otto, if given the chance.   Putting that aside, even with his wild looks, Otto has no trouble getting females to look his way.  His pleasant demeanor and boyish face has made many a girl, punk or not, want to be with him.

           I regain my focus on the road ahead and Gem’s hand, which has now found its way to my inner thigh.  Needless to say, I am enjoying her touch and she knows it by the big smile on my face.  I mash the gas pedal, hastily hurtling us onto 61st Street before making a right onto West Thompson, where I roar the SS down towards North 52nd and Lancaster.  This big 396, V-8 has a lot of play left in the pedal and I’m more than willing to have some fun with it.

The apartments atop the red awning shops along ‘The Strip’ have started to see better days and you’d better have your wits about you around here, ‘cause this is not the place to be if you lack streetwise presence.  Most of the shitheel, douche bag burb’ twats I live around would crap their pants if they drove through here late at night.  Get stopped at any corner it’s best to give a nod to the locals, followed by a thousand foot stare.

Pretty soon, we’re away from ‘The Strip’, slowly rolling into Fairmount Park, which I’d heard in its heyday, could easily bear comparison with Central Park as a beautiful, safe experience for the denizens of Philadelphia to behold, but the 1980’s were neither good, nor safe times for many parts of the city and with tensions still high from the MOVE bombing, Philly at times teetered on the brink of an all-out race riot occuring.  

Nevertheless, it will not deter us from a night of revelry with our punk tribes, since most everyone leaves us to our own devices mainly because of our wild looks anyway.  The only people you really had to watch out for were the drug dealers or the occasional group of Nazi, skinhead assholes who were looking to throw fists.  Dusty, Otto and I had rolled a few of the scumbags at a show in Philly this past summer, so we’re constantly on the lookout for retaliation.

I peer into the rearview again and grin, given that Otto basically has both girls in the throes of passion.  Gem turns around to see what’s making me so amused but quickly turns away with a gasp, mouthing ‘holy shit’, before we both shake our heads, laughing lightly.  “Keep driving to where you see the fire burning, Robbs. That’ll be the place.”   Killing Joke’s, ‘Eighties’ was now blaring through the speakers as I bring this awesome piece of machinery to a stop far away from where two metal trash cans full of leaves and branches were keeping everyone warm on this chilly, October evening.  “Should we leave the three of them alone?”

“They are not doing that crap in my car,” Gem snorts derisively.  “They can grab a blanket from the back and mess around in the park.  Yo’ lovebirds, we’re here!  Let’s party!”

Excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!) upcoming, literary fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’...Chapter 6, ‘Fairmount’....

The Philadelphia Water Works at Fairmount Park by the Art Museum fell into major disrepair during the 70′s-80′s but has been wonderfully preserved and restored in recent decades...

The Smith Memorial Arch, leading into West Fairmount Park, Philadelphia...

It’s time to party....Philly ‘Misfits’....’PUNKS’....

Killing Joke’s ‘Love Like Blood’....

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Rock&Metal Blog

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Ahh...fall days at college, $1.20 smokes for 60 cents and living the punk life...what could be better in 1985?

. Climbing the steep paths leading us towards the Student Union building, the sun begins its usual game of hide-n-seek amongst the towering blanket of leaves overhead.  Fall came a little early this October and the palate of reds, yellows, and burnt orange swirl with the breeze like broken, colored glass in a kaleidoscope.

Through the trails, the wind howls, Sammi nuzzles onto my shoulder, buttoning up her petite jacket against the cold.  “So where is my lovely, Bohemian girl today?  Is she going to be at the Student Union, in class, or parts unknown?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.  You know Gemma, she’s more unpredictable than October weather, I guess.  Let’s go check the Union first, I have to get a dark tea and some smokes anyway.  Would you like a coffee, Samms?  It’s my treat, I got paid this week.”

In between going to school and enjoying my new found freedoms, I picked up a part time job cleaning office buildings, and was still busing and waiting tables at a pub by the school.  “Well thank you, my hard working honey.”  Sammi remains nuzzled into me entering the Union.  “Any chance you can get me some cheap smokes from the machine, babe?”

“As long as they are still a dollar-twenty, hon, sixty cent smokes, coming right up.”  Sammi walks into the cafeteria to snarf some hot refreshments; I head to the cigarette machine, waiting for everyone to clear out.  

A friendly classmate of ours who worked for a vending company last summer gave a quick ‘tutorial’ on how to ‘purchase’ smokes at half price.  Scoping again to make sure no preppy snitches are watching, I grab change out of my shredded jeans…the ones with Sex Pistols lyrics scribed over every inch of fabric with a black Sharpie…. placing the coins in the slot.  This must be completed in precise order; dime, quarter, another quarter.  Now, it’s time to get ready for the intricate, safe cracker artistry.

Simultaneously, you have to pull out the selector knob under your brand slowly, push down on the change return lever, listen carefully for the selector knob to click, quite the feat in a Student Union full of loud teens and twenty-somethings’.  I have a habit of crouching down by the knob and waiting for the click.  It should be happening right about… *click*… now, with the lightning speed of Bruce Lee, the knob’s drawn out fully and viola, a fresh pack of twenty Reds appears in the tray.  

After repeating the process for Sammi, as a thank you gift for driving here, letting me flirt with her and the like, I repeat the process for an exquisite lovely who hopefully will join in our morning debauchery.  Kneeling down next to backpack, I push our prizes into the front pouch, only to hear a familiar clicking sound approaching, accompanied by a familiar song, being played at an eerily moderate volume.

           John Mc Geoch’s guitar plays hauntingly; the clicking on the floor gets closer…..Siouxsie Sioux’s voice rolls out like a demonic purr….

 “From the cradle bars

Comes a beckoning voice

It sends you spinning

You have no choice,”

           The clicking and the music stop directly behind me, replaced by a spellbinding, sultry voice.  “What’s in the bag, handsome?  You know, stealing cigarettes is a Federal offense.  Stand up, turn around slowly, give up the contraband without a fight and no one gets hurt.”

           Complying to the voices demands, the boombox volume is killed.  Turning to face the judge, jury and executioner, her early morning magnificence; the natural, light olive hue of her skin makes the green of her eyes even more arresting, the hair, which when left to flow freely, almost reaches the center of her back, is pulled up, unlike the other night when it was gelled into what seemed to be hundreds of razor thin pink spikes.  The Kool Aid neon has been washed out, revealing natural, deep auburn beauty, save for the dyed, shocked-white streak running through a few long strands.  

The ensemble of thigh-high boots with precarious heels, sheer black stockings, short tartan skirt, black “ANARCHY U.K” t-shirt, covered by a short, studded leather jacket creates quite the dissonant effect in this predominantly, white bread, yuppie campus, considering the closest thing you had to “The Look,” was the Duran Duran or Culture Club, ‘New Wave’ posers.  Most of these kids never even listened to that music, but the demand in the 80’s of paying a high price to look trendy, existed in spades with this clique.  

Excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!!) upcoming, literary fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’....Chapter 2, ‘1985��......

from the Camden side of the Delaware River, looking into Philly, circa 1986....sketch, courtesy of Rich Cucarese

Siouxsie always had me spellbound....

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John McGeoch’s guitar sound is mesmerizing on ‘Israel’, complimenting Siouxsie’s already ethereal sound...

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One of the most surreal places to experience club music!!!

The famous dance cages of the Limelight, NYC

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No Love Lost....No Love Lost....

With the stench of beer, puke, cigs and weed giving the new club it’s break-in stank, the applause started again, begging ‘Crack’ for some encores.  

Gem, true to her word when she was at my mother’s house back in February, had the band learn her stirring cover of Joy Division’s, ‘No Love Lost’, which had our punk tribes moshing out of control until Ian Curtis’ spoken verses, utterly wrought tonight through his spirit, by the painful howls of one, Gemma ‘Swan’ Stinson, left the ‘Underground’ hushed and awestruck at that moment.    

Excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s( that’s me!!) upcoming, literary fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’...Chapter 34, ‘The Message’...

From the haunting, disturbing movie, ‘Control’.....

Gorgeous Brody Dalle does justice to this cover, summoning Ian Curtis’ haunting spirit...give it a listen...PUNKS FOR LIFE!!!

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Oh bondage...up yours!!

THE NIGHT WAS PURE FUCKIN’ CRUST….A TOTAL, GOBSMACKED HIT!!!  Dilby’s opening night at his official, legit club named, what else, ‘The Underground’, was a smashing success and ‘Crack’ was glad to be a part of it.

Rolling loudly and triumphantly into the perilous depths of Northern Liberties like Roman Centurions on our gas powered chariots of chrome; we took to the stage after our opening act, ‘The Slit Throats’ put on a killer performance of their own.  With their sultry, firecracker singer and guitarist, Delia Dagger, thrashing about the stage in full effect, her band, along with our buddy Zip on the sax, shook the windows of this rustic, factory space.  She even had Gem join her onstage for a purely glorious, screaming rendition of X-Ray Spex, ‘Oh Bondage! Up Yours!’ that would have made Poly Styrene jump out of her fuckin’ skin!

Of course, during the song, Syd and a few of the ’SKINZ’ girls made it a point to hoist the bound, gagged and dildo violated, ‘Ranger Smurf’, proudly into the air before he was moshed, stomped, unstuffed and beaten silly by the wild, ‘Underground’ punks, while up on stage, the sexual tension between the two spiked haired beauties could’ve sliced Dil’s club to ribbons with a switchblade when the depraved lyrics were spewed through his new sound system….

“Bind me, tie me, chain me to the wall

I wanna’ be a slave to you all

 Oh bondage, up yours

Oh bondage, no more

Oh bondage, up yours

Oh bondage, no more

 Chain-store chainsmoke, I consume you all

Chain-gang chainmail, I don’t think at all

 Oh bondage, up yours

Oh bondage, no more

Oh bondage, up yours

Oh bondage, no more

 Thrash me, crush me, beat me ‘til I fall

I wanna’ be a victim to you all

 Oh bondage, up yours

Oh bondage, no more

Oh bondage, up yours

     Oh bondage, no more…….”

Excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!!) upcoming, literary fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’....Chapter 34, ‘The Message’...

Poly Styrene just kicks ass!!!

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Punk was about succeeding without any skills except honesty. Honesty isn’t easy though. That’s where the art, unironically, comes in.

Richard Hell (via mannequinfactory)

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Sketch courtesy of Rich Cucarese, author of the upcoming, fictional novel, ‘PUNKS’

Never Say Never....

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The famous dance cages of the Limelight, NYC

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The Limelight, NYC!!!